A Time to Kill

selection had been carefully dictated by the Honorable Omar Noose, who knew exactly what he was doing. If there was an all-white jury, and a conviction, and a death sentence, every single elementary step of the jury selection procedure would be attacked on appeal. He had been through it before, and had been reversed. But not this time.

From the master list, the name and address of each juror was typed on a separate jury summons. The stack of summonses was. kept in Jean’s office under lock until eight Monday morning when Sheriff Ozzie Walls arrived. He drank coffee with Jean and received his instructions.

"Judge Noose wants these served between four P.M. and midnight tonight," she said.

"Okay."

"The jurors are to report to the courtroom promptly by nine next Monday."

"Okay."

"The summons does not indicate the name or nature of the trial, and the jurors are not to be told anything."

"I reckon they’ll know."

"Probably so, but Noose was very specific. Your men are to say nothing about the case when the summonses are served. The names of the jurors are very confidential, at least until Wednesday. Don’t ask why-Noose’s orders."

Ozzie flipped through the stack. "How many do we have here?"

"One fifty."

"A hundred and fifty! Why so many?"

"It’s a big case. Noose’s orders."

"It’ll take ever man I’ve got to serve these papers."

"I’m sorry."

"Oh well. If that’s what His Honor wants."

Ozzie left, and within seconds Jake was standing at the counter flirting with the secretaries and smiling at Jean Gil-lespie. He followed her back to her office. He closed the door. She retreated behind her desk and pointed at him. He kept smiling.

"I know why you’re here," she said sternly, "and you can’t have it."

"Give me the list, Jean."

"Not until Wednesday. Noose’s orders."

Wednesday? Why Wednesday?"

"I don’t know. But Omar was very specific."

"Give me the list, Jean."

"Jake, I can’t. Do you want me to get in trouble?"

"You won’t get in trouble because no one will know it. You know how well I can keep a secret." He was not smiling now. "Jean, give me the damned list."

"Jake, I just can’t."

"I need it, and I need it now. I can’t wait until Wednesday. I’ve got work to do."

"It wouldn’t be fair to Buckley," she said weakly.

"To hell with Buckley. Do you think he plays fair? He’s a snake and you dislike him as much as I do."

"Probably more."

"Give me the list, Jean."

"Look, Jake, we’ve always been close. I think more of you than any lawyer I know. When my son got in trouble I called you, right? I trust you and I want you to win this case. But I can’t defy a judge’s orders."

"Who helped you get elected last time, me or Buck-ley?"

"Come on, Jake."

"Who kept your son out of jail, me or Buckley?"

"Please."

"Who tried to put your son in jail, me or Buckley?"

"That’s not fair, Jake."

"Who stood up for your husband when everybody, and I mean everybody, in the church wanted him gone when the books didn’t balance?"

"It’s not a question.of loyalty, Jake. I love you and Carla and Hanna, but I just can’t do it."

Jake slammed the door and stormed out of the office. Jean sat at her desk and wiped tears from her cheeks.

At 10:00 A.M. Harry Rex barged into Jake’s office and threw a copy of the jury list on his desk. "Don’t ask," he said. Beside each name he had made notes, such as "Don’t know" or "Former client-hates niggers" or "Works at the shoe factory, might be sympathetic."

Jake read each name slowly, trying to place it with a

face or a reputation. There was nothing but names. No addresses, ages, occupations. Nothing but names. His fourth-grade schoolteacher from Karaway. One of his mother’s friends from the Garden Club. A former client, shoplifting, he thought. A name from church. A regular at the Coffee Shop. A prominent farmer. Most of the names sounded white. There was a Willie Mae Jones, Leroy Washington, Roosevelt Tucker, Bessie Lou Bean, and a few other black names. But the list looked awfully pale. He recognized thirty names at most.

"Whatta you think?" asked Harry Rex.

"Hard to tell. Mostly white, but that’s to be expected. Where’d you get this?"

"Don’t ask. I made notes by twenty-six names. That’s the best I can do. The rest I don’t know."

"You’re a true friend, Harry Rex."

"I’m a prince. Are you ready for trial?"

"Not yet. But I’ve found a secret weapon."

"What?"

"You’ll meet her later."

"Her?"

"Yeah. You busy Wednesday night?"

"I don’t think so. Why?"

"Good. Meet here at eight. Lucien will be here. Maybe one or two others. I want to take a couple of hours and talk about the jury. Who do we want? Let’s get a profile of the model juror, and go from there. We’ll cover each name and hopefully identify most of these people."

"Sounds like fun. I’ll be here. What’s your model juror?"

"I’m not sure. I think the vigilante would appeal to rednecks. Guns, violence, protection of women. The rednecks would eat it up. But my man is black, and a bunch of rednecks would fry him. He killed two of their own."

"I agree. I’d stay away from women. They would have no sympathy for the ra**sts, but they place a higher value on life. Taking an M-16 and blowing their heads off is something women just don’t understand. You and I understand it because we’re fathers. It appeals to us. The violence and blood doesn’t bother us. We admire him. You’ve got to pick

oumc aumirers on tnat jury. Young fathers with some education."

"That’s interesting. Lucien said he would stick with women because they’re more sympathetic."

"I don’t think so. I know some women who’d cut your throat if you crossed them."

"Some of your clients?"

"Yeah, and one is on that list. Frances Burdeen. Pick her, and I’ll tell her how to vote."

"You serious?"

"Yep. She’ll do anything I tell her."

"Can you be in court Monday? I want you to watch the jury during the selection process, then help me decide on the twelve."

"I wouldn’t miss it."

Jake heard voices downstairs and pressed his finger to his lips. He listened, then smiled and motioned for Harry Rex to follow him. They tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened to the commotion around Ethel’s desk.

"You most certainly do not work here," Ethel insisted.

"I most certainly do. I was hired Saturday by Jake Bri-gance, who I believe is your boss."

"Hired for what?" Ethel demanded.

"As a law clerk."

"Well, he didn’t discuss it with me."

"He discussed it with me, and gave me the job."

"How much is he paying you?"

"A hundred bucks an hour."

"Oh my God! I’ll have to speak with him first."

"I’ve already spoken with him, Ethel."

"It’s Mrs. Twitty to you." Ethel studied her carefully from head to toe. Acid-washed jeans, penny loafers, no socks, an oversized white cotton button-down with, evidently, nothing on underneath. "You’re not dressed appropriately for this office. You’re, you’re indecent."